


your mouth's a gun

by montecarlos



Category: Formula 1 RPF, GP2 RPF
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bratva AU, Gen, Kissing, M/M, Russian Mafia, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8157559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montecarlos/pseuds/montecarlos
Summary: His fingers dance over the mark, over the gold fading over his pale skin as he suddenly feels someone’s gaze locked on him. He glances past his reflection to see a young man staring at him. He feels the bright blue eyes burn into him, his heart smashing up against his ribcage.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princessrosberg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessrosberg/gifts).



> This is for my best friend, the person who makes me smile - Emma. Thank you for putting up with me, thank you for sticking with me through everything. I love you. Happy birthday, baby. This is for you. This fic combines elements of the bratva universe established and a fic I posted on tumblr in which colours appear on your skin depending on the bond you forge.

Max knew that he was intended for someone else, knew from the ripe young age of ten that he would never marry for love, that he would never fall in love with someone that he wasn’t supposed to be with. He paid the price for his father’s betrayal - for his father running away from his intended to be with the man he loved, the man who would become Max’s other father. It’s his seventeenth birthday, the day that finally marks him as a man. He straightens the tie hanging around his neck as he tries to flatten down his mussed hair. He feels nervous - tonight will be the first time that he meets Carlos Sainz, his intended, the man that he will marry, the man who will solidify the bond between his family and theirs. It was nothing more than a political union. He glances over his skin - his eyes roving over the mint green streak across his forehead, the first mark that he’d ever acquired from his father. His dad’s mark - a burnt orange colour curves over his cheek, the first place that his father had brushed his fingers. Max’s own mark is left on his parents - the black mark dancing over his dad’s finger, on his father’s cheek where his tiny fingers had curved against the pale skin.    
  
“You don’t need to worry about that,” His father had said, his eyes fixed on Max - bright blue, almost steel-like, boring into him.    
  
Max’s eyes had fallen on the burnt orange mark - belonging to his dad on the pale skin - it seems to shine like a beacon. Max wants to find love like his father, wants to believe when he shakes Carlos’s hand for the first time tonight, that Carlos’s mark will sink into his skin, that the colour shines vividly against his pale skin. His brother knows Carlos - Max knows that by the gold mark that shines on his half-brother’s tanned skin, not as bright as the chocolate brown one from Alex. It was a mark that had stopped Mitch’s engagement to Pascal as chocolate brown eyes, that matched the mark on the Kiwi’s skin, locked onto Mitch. Max sighs heavily as he smoothes the creases from his jacket. His brother’s mark - a obnoxious hot pink curves over his wrist - as he fixes one of his cufflinks, swallowing down the nausea rising up inside him. 

“The mark doesn’t matter,” His father had continued, eyes boring into Max’s.    
  
“It mattered to Mitch,” Max found himself muttering.    
  
His father had gritted his teeth. “Mitchell is not the true heir to the Bratva, he was born as a bastard. You, however, are the heir, and you must act as such. You will marry Carlos Sainz, even if he is not your soulmate,”   
  
Max doesn’t have any answer to that. He catches sight of his own mark on his father’s cheek as he turns away. Black was an unusual colour - his father had told him - it was more difficult to find the person who he was intended to be with, due to the strength of his colour. It didn’t matter anyway, his father had continued, as Max would never have to worry about soulmates, he would never have to worry about bonding with anyone. His husband was already chosen, before he could even walk. Fernando Alonso’s hand had taken his father’s and that was that.    
  
Max sighs heavily as the door closes. He fixes the mask over his eyes, his fingers ghosting over the hard black porcelain. He hates masquerade balls, finds them tedious and a cliche - but it’s his father’s important dinner and he had insisted that it be in costume.    
  
Glancing at himself once more in the mirror, he takes in the sight of himself - his suit clinging to every curve of his body, the mask is stark against his pale skin. He doesn’t recognise himself, he thinks as he slips the ornate gun that was a gift from his father into the inner pocket of his suit. His blue eyes - so much like his father’s - stare at his own reflection one last time.    
  


* * *

  
  
The party is in full swing by the time he sweeps down the stairs, wrinkling his nose at the fresh flowers that his father has placed everywhere. He  _ knows  _ that Max is allergic to lilies. The group of violinists play a soothing rendition of what appears to be a cover of Take Me To Church for the crowd of people. Max spots most of his father’s colleagues - Adrian Newey in a sharp dark suit, a navy mask over his eyes, his stunning wife in a silk cocktail dress that falls to her feet. He hates this life sometimes - he hates the facade that he has to put up. His foot hits the bottom step and he sweeps into the large group of people, smiling widely. They all seem to stop, to shake his hand, he notices that the black mark they come away with merely sinks into their skin, never to return. He finds his way through the crowd, moving past a waiter and snagging a flute of champagne from the tray. The liquid tastes bitter as it goes down - stinging on his tongue as he dumps the empty glass onto the tray of another waiter. He’s used to the taste of alcohol - he had his first mouthful of champagne when he was five, remembers the bitter taste even then.    
  
He wants nothing more than to retire to his room, to pull away his suit and out of this facade - but he can feel his father’s dark blue eyes boring into him. He spots his grandfather a few feet away, the distinctive smell of blood and cologne curling through Max’s nostrils. Max is no stranger to killing men - he killed his first man when he was twelve, remembers the light leave his eyes, remembers the power threading through his veins. He hated it, he hated being a prince, hated the expectations that go with that. He wishes to be normal, to be like everyone else, to meet someone and fall in love with them. Max has seen Carlos in photographs before - he’s attractive, for sure - but Max doesn’t  _ love him _ .    
  
He spots him through the crowd - he’s more beautiful in person than Max imagined - his caramel coloured skin is a beautiful contrast to his navy suit, the splodges of colour are evident over his body - Max can pick out the bronze sweep that belongs to his father on his wrist. He laughs at something the man next to him says, his hand elegantly twisted around the flute of champagne as his lips twist into a smile. Max tries to imagine himself married to the man, tries to imagine him at his side but he can’t. He can’t picture himself and Carlos married, he can’t picture them together, can’t imagine Carlos smiling at him in such a way, can’t imagine kissing Carlos -    
  
“Welcome to our home,” His father’s voice cuts through the music and everyone stops to turn to glance at the head of the Bratva. Sebastian Vettel cuts a powerful figure, his black suit clinging to every inch of his body, his dark blue mask is dark against his pale skin as he smiles over the crowd. “And welcome to the party. Tonight is a celebration of the engagement of our son Maximilian to the heir of the Galega, Carlos Alonso. It is hoped that their union will in turn unite our warring families,”   
  
Max wonders how many of his father’s words are lies as he finds another champagne glass pushed into his fingers. Carlos’s eyes fix on him - the dark brown chocolate sinking onto the blue - and Max feels uneasy. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to be connected to Carlos for the rest of his life. He knows he should be grateful in a way - Carlos is gorgeous and he’s about Max’s age - but he can’t stop thinking about how unfair everything is, how he never wanted this to be his life. He’s wearing the ring that Fernando Alonso had brought around, it weighs heavily on his finger, the diamond glinting in the light. Max had been slipping it on and off ever since it arrived a few days ago. His father had said that Carlos had chosen it himself, Max can spot a similar looking flash ring on the Spaniard’s finger. He wonders if his father had in fact chosen it and sent it to Carlos, if Carlos had looked down at the garish clear diamond and thought about Max at all.    
  
“So let us celebrate years of bloodshed finally coming to an end with the union of our sons!” Sebastian declares as a cheer rings up around the room. Carlos continues to stare at Max - he looks about as happy as Max feels. Their gaze sticks for a moment - brown locked on blue - as Max fiddles with his ring once more. He doesn’t think he’s ready to do this.    
  


* * *

  
  
Max has drunk another glass of champagne - the fizzy bitter liquid clinging to his lips - as the brown eyes suddenly appear in his vision. Carlos is even more beautiful up close, looking up at Max with a strange expression on his face. Max cannot quite capture the look on his face - his eyes are darker than usual, the smell of his cologne curling through the air.    
  
“So you are to be my fiance,” It’s more of a statement than a question, Max thinks as he gazes into the dark eyes.    
  
“I am,” He feels foolish after the words leave his lips. He wonders if his father was embarrassed in such a way, if he was paraded in front of suitors like this, making small talk. Max tries to imagine Carlos as his husband - as the pair curled up in bed together, matching gold ring on their fingers - tries to imagine Carlos at his side as they run their empires.    
  
“Are you angry with your father?” Carlos asks silkily, eyes burning into Max.   
  
“No, no, of course not, it’s my duty as a prince-” Max begins, Carlos’s eyes still burning into him, making him uneasy.    
  
“But as a  _ prince _ , don’t you think you deserve more of a choice? I mean, in a few years, your fathers will be dead and you’ll own the empire-”   
  
“It’s not down to me to make decisions now,” Max finds himself saying, his voice is quiet as he fights to break eye contact with the Galega heir. “I am not yet the head of the Bratva,”   
  
“That’s true,” Carlos mutters, his eyes combing over Max’s form.    
  
Max feels his heart racing, slamming against his ribcage as he takes in Carlos’s eyes, darker than the night, against the dark red mask curving over his eyes. Max wonders why on earth his father even bothered to hold a masquerade ball - he knows who everyone is in the room, he’s grown up seeing them outside his father’s office. He knows exactly who they all are. His eyes flicker back to Carlos, to the smile on his face.    
  
“But do you want to be, Maximilian? That’s the true question,” Carlos continues, eyes fixed on Max as he fiddles with the engagement ring. “Do you really want to be the little good boy that your father wants you to be?”   
  
“I- I, of course I do,” Max says, dizziness pulling over his vision. He tells himself that it’s because of the alcohol, but in the back of his mind, he can’t help but think that he’s intoxicated by those dark brown eyes fixed on him. “We have to unite our families-”   
  
“You wish to be trapped in a loveless marriage for the rest of your life?” Carlos asks with a raised eyebrow.   
  
“You do not?” Max asks. “You wish for more bloodshed?”   
  
“Of course not,” Carlos says silkily. “I just know that this is pointless...this marriage will be nothing more than a sham,” He continues, his hand moving to ghost over Max’s cheek. 

Warmth blossoms over Max’s skin for a moment as Carlos drops his hand, his smirk still clinging to his face as he turns on his heel and leaves. Max goes to follow him, but he soon loses the beautiful Spaniard in the busy crowd of people. He spots his own reflection in the mirror - the gold mark left by Carlos’s hands slowly fading against his pale skin. It does not shine brightly. Max bites down on his lip as he watches the colour fade further - he knew that the mark left by Carlos was not going to be bright and bold - but he had hoped for a better mark. His fingers dance over the mark, over the gold fading over his pale skin as he suddenly feels someone’s gaze locked on him. He glances past his reflection to see a young man staring at him. He feels the bright blue eyes burn into him, his heart smashing up against his ribcage.   
  
Time seems to stand still as Max blinks once more. The boy’s eyes are still fixed on him - he spots splashes of colour wrapping over the slightly tanned skin. He’s not sure why but his chest is heaving, his heart hammering against his ribcage. However, before he can speak, the young man turns and disappears into the crowd.   
  


* * *

  
  
Max thinks about the piercing bright blue eyes as he stands on the balcony, looking out over the shining city lights of Moscow. The chill sinks into his bones as he glances out over the skyline, wonders what his life will be. The ring on his finger shines in the bright lights - the diamond gleaming brightly. He doesn’t want to think about married life, doesn’t want to think about life married to Carlos, stuck in a loveless marriage for the rest of his life. He thinks about the bright blue eyes of the young man in the mirror.    
  
“Won’t you get cold out here?” A warm voice says behind him. Max spins around, only to find the man with the startling blue eyes staring back at him, his deep crimson mask is dark against his lightly tanned skin. It matches the bow tie that is wrapped around his ivory coloured shirt. “Maximilian Ricciardo-Vettel,”   
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” Max says, his hand tightening on the balcony.    
  
“We haven’t, but I know everything about you, Maximilian,” The young man says, a small smile curving over his lips, showing off his dimple. “I’ve heard all about you, you have a reputation-”   
  
“Yet, I know nothing about you,” Max says crisply.    
  
“Isn’t that the point of these masquerade balls? To mask your identity?” The young man says with a smile.    
  
“Anyone would think you have something to hide,” Max cuts in, a small smile of his own creeping onto his face.   
  
“Maybe I do. Shouldn’t you be in the party, dancing with your husband to be?”   
  
Max bites back a laugh at the man’s words, he wonders if the gold is still clinging to his skin. “I think you know as well as I do that my marriage will be one of convenience,”   
  
“Such a shame, to give your heart away to a man who is in love with somebody else,” The man says softly, his eyes flickering over Max’s lips.   
  
“It’s none of your business,” Max says. “I should go, my father will wonder-”   
  
“Why? Are you afraid of the truth?” The man says, leaning in. Max can see the flickers of gold in his eyes, they unnerve him.    
  
“Of course not,” Max cuts in bluntly. He hates how the man makes him feel, hates how those beautiful blue eyes make his chest flutter.  The man moves in closer, his hand moving to ghost over the ribbon holding Max’s mask in place. Max exhales softly as the man slowly unties the ribbon, the mask sliding from his face. The man breathes out as the mask falls away in his hands.    
  
“You’re beautiful,” The man states quietly. “Your father has kept you well hidden,”   
  
“And yet I know nothing about you,” Max says, trying to ignore the eyes locked on his own. “Anyway, I have to go-” He continues, feeling his heart beat faster as the man’s eyes remain on him, sinking over his skin. “I have to get to my husband-” He says, but he’s stopped by the man’s hand clasping around his wrist. Warmth blossoms over the skin.    
  
“Please let go-” He bites out the words, feeling the curl of burn over his wrist and the young man does. However, Max gasps out at the mark left on his skin - it’s bright yellow, brighter than any other mark on his body. It’s the mark that a soulmate leaves on the skin. Max finds himself gazing into the bright blue eyes, the breath leaving his body. “I-”   
  
The young man doesn’t say a word as he slowly removes his mask from his face - Max feels his mouth fall open as the man’s face slowly comes into view. He’s beautiful - plush lips, the tiniest amount of stubble dusting over his chin. His bright blue eyes are framed by thick, dark-set eyebrows, a small dimple caressing his cheek. His eyes are still locked on the bright yellow mark still evident around Max’s wrist. “Maximilian-” He breathes out.    
  
Max, however, doesn’t get time to respond as the young man finally closes the gap between them, their lips slamming together. Max has never kissed anyone before, his father always making sure to keep lovers away from his son. He never wanted any distractions for the heir, wanted Max to focus on gaining the strength needed to rise to the title he was supposed to carry. But the man’s lips feel good against his own - they’re soft and warm and he draws a breathily sigh from his lips before he can even realise. The man’s lips fold over his own, his arm moving to clasp around his waist, fingers brushing over Max’s suit.    
  
“Oh-” The next sigh that pushes past Max’s lips is louder and the man smiles against his plush lips, his tongue ghosting over the crease. Max groans at the sensation - he’s never felt like this before - his heart hammering against his chest. The man’s hand moves to fist into Max’s hair, eliciting another moan from the teenager, his fingernails scraping against his scalp. He feels the breeze against his cheeks, remembers who he is kissing and where he is - the ring on his finger suddenly feels like a tonne weight. He rips his lips away from the young man, breathily heavily, his chest heaving.    
  
“I shouldn’t have done that....I’m a taken man,” He says, trying to ignore the tingling sensation on his lips as he stares into the blue eyes, the man’s swollen lips clearly evident, slick with spit.    
  
“Not yet you aren’t, you are not married to Alonso yet, Maximilian,” The man purrs, his eyes moving back to the mark. “Besides, it’s clear that you’re not supposed to be together-”   
  
“Well, I don’t even know your name so it’s clear I’m not supposed to be with you either,” Max fires back, fingers rubbing over his ring. He thinks of Carlos still inside, probably wondering where he is. He thinks about his father - if he has cameras outside on the balcony, if he knows that Max has kissed somebody he doesn’t even know the name of. He thinks about the mark circling his wrist, thinks about how he can hide the bright yellow that twists around his skin - his father will go insane if he finds out about it, that Max allowed somebody to touch him. He’s always been careful with Max, never allowed him to date, never allowed him to do anything with anyone other than his family.    
  
“I think you should leave-” Max says, his voice wavering ever so slightly. “I-”   
  
“My name is Pierre,” The man replies, his eyes still locked on Max. “You wanted to know my name - so -”   
  
“It doesn’t change anything,” Max mutters. “I’m engaged to be married, I should have you arrested for even touching me-”   
  
Pierre’s expression doesn’t change. “But you won’t,”   
  
“I could do-”   
  
“But I know  _ you _ , Max,” Pierre says softly, his hand ghosts over Max’s cheek before it dips to run over the soft skin where the yellow mark recedes. “I’m sure we will see each other again soon,” He finishes with a smirk before he turns on his heel and walks away. Max feels the tingle against his lips for a moment as he notices the black mark on the side of Pierre’s neck - blacker than the night - and then he’s certain. He  _ will  _ see Pierre again. 


End file.
